Rule Number One
by Eudoxus
Summary: They don't talk about it, not ever, not during, not after, not in those before moments, slow-motion, walking down the hall post-derief, like walking side by side to their execution. Kink bingo prompt - vanilla


**Title**: Rule Number One  
><strong>Series<strong>: Hellboy  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: HB/John  
><strong>Rating<strong>: R  
><strong>Word Count<strong>: 950ish  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Kink Bingo communal card prompt - Vanilla  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Not mine  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: None really, but it's not beta'd and only got a quick read through

They don't talk about it, not ever, not during, not after, not in those before moments, slow-motion, walking down the hall post-derief, like walking side by side to their execution. Execution, followed by re-birth, followed by comically black-and-white movie acts of Hellboy lighting a cigar and John dozing beside him until it's time to go back to his own bed.

They don't talk about it and they aren't a thing. It changes nothing in their day-to-day interactions. John barely understands how it started, and Hellboy is loathe to admit that he is the instigator to what could be described with delicate, lace-trimmed words of slow deliberate passion. He finds it hard to admit how easily he finds in John the comfort he struggled to find in Liz, while John learned early on in his career here not to look too deeply at all, and so he doesn't.

But even for Hellboy, who maybe couldn't die if he tried, some missions are harder than others, and some jobs leave marks that not even the most talented surgeon can fix. Sometimes things go wrong, and sometimes they come so close to losing someone, and he can't lose anyone else, refuses to let that happen, the world doesn't want to face the consequences if that happens.

It's not always John in danger, but it's always John who follows after him. Always John who steps quietly in the room after him, shuts the door and bolts the lock. John who places a hand on Hellboy's arm and guides him to the bed, shuffling through cats and dirty laundry, ready to reassure him however he needs. And he trusts John, trusts that he'll never tell a soul how the mighty red demon that graces the tabloids with feats of destruction and mayhem, kills things that aren't meant to die (and sometimes were never meant to live) with his bare hands, deals with it all by casting off the machismo completely.

It's all about being normal, or as close to normal as you can get considering the circumstances. Exploring, discovering that yes, John is still there with no plans to leave, and that even Hellboy, towering, fearsome, can take comfort in mortal pleasure, in easy touching and gentle reassurance.

It was Liz that almost died today, and maybe it's Liz Hellboy is thinking of as they trudge exhausted down the halls to his room. But it's John's mouth that traces his jaw, John's hands that skirt across inhumanly hot skin, hard muscle, wrap themselves in a twitching tail. John's warm words of comfort that bring Hellboy back to the present, back to earth, the most mundane assurances that would, in any other situation, have Hellboy on edge at the threat of insincerity.

Even now he needs to hear the truth, but as John murmurs "You did good, HB. She's ok, I'm ok, you're ok. All because of you, Red," right up against his cheek, presses their bodies together (John's so much smaller, but not so fragile as Hellboy once believed), he accepts it as fact. John wouldn't lie to him. John doesn't lie to him, not even to get him out of bed in the late morning, or to get him to agree to another of Manning's ridiculous protocols, so why would he lie now?

It's so easy, the two of them together, and so saccharine, like fumbling teenagers more than an FBI agent and a demon who's been around long enough to remember the second world war. It's not like with Liz, where they had to be careful because fire-proof rarely meant Liz-fire-proof, and Liz needed him just as much as he needed her. There are times when he just doesn't want to be needed anymore.

It helps that it's John's job to make sure Hellboy is happy. John is the one person in the entire building, the entire world it feels like sometimes, whose motive is clear - he's there for Hellboy. His contract probably doesn't extend quite as far as this, but since they don't ever talk about it (and because it always bears repeating: rule number one of soppy vanilla comfort sex with Hellboy - you don't ever ever ever talk about comfort sex with Hellboy) Hellboy considers it writing between the lines. Keep Hellboy happy. This keeps Hellboy happy. It seems to keep John happy, too.

When it's time for John to leave, usually about the time Letterman comes on and Hellboy reaches for the remote to change to something less nauseating, there is no real routine. Tonight John's pants have actually made it off, and he searches in a sleepy haze through the mussed blankets. He finds them crushed against the foot of the bed, rolled tight in a twisted section of sheet, and eventually he gives up altogether on his boxers (Hellboy makes a joke about a cat with a grudge, and John just rolls his eyes). John gets laundry duty half the time anyways, so he's not too worried.

Before he makes it off the bed Hellboy catches John's wrist, tugs him in close until their foreheads are pressed together and John can feel the edges of perfectly filed horns dig into his scalp just hard enough to leave a fleeting mark when they pull apart. Hellboy kisses him then, an all too brief press of mouths, the first contact he has initiated himself all night. Then it's over and John is out the door, down the hall, short one pair of boxers but looking like nothing is out of the ordinary other than two half-moon impressions right below his hairline.

The next day their mission is easy, and Hellboy is as confident as ever, bantering with Liz, picking on John - Boyscout this, Myers that - regaling Abe with a tale that is half-made up just to see if he picks up on the parts that aren't true. Life goes on.


End file.
